There’s a scale in the locker room. It taunts me. Dares me. Beckons me.
I don’t even own a scale at home, nor have I ever. But the other day, the gym scale won out. After my workout, I went over to it. I kicked it to make it work, then I stepped on. I won’t reveal the number that was displayed, but it was 10 pounds more than I’d been telling myself I weighed, which is still more than I like to think I weigh.
Of course, then I realized that I was already in full dress, including shoes. So I promised myself that next time I’d make sure to weigh myself at a more sensical time. Next time? Why does there have to be a next time? I never cared what I weighed before – it’s the introduction of a scale in plain view that has corrupted me.
I’ve been able to resist the temptation thus far, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.